The Ferryman Institute (42 page)

Her mother smoothed out the sheets with her hand. “I didn't think it could be possible for a child to read too much—especially with your generation—but I'm beginning to wonder about that.”

Alice frowned. “You always said I watched too much TV.”

“You did,” her mother said as she brushed an errant strand of hair out of Alice's face. “But you always had a very addictive personality. You did too much of
everything
that interested you at one point or another. God, remember your Lisa Frank stage? You must have had fifteen binders filled with stickers of pink unicorns and purple dolphins.”

Alice's heart seemed to jump forward a beat as the nostalgia took hold. “And Friendly's Cone Head sundaes.”

Her mother laughed. “Grilled cheese sandwiches and Cone Head sundaes, every single time.”

“Why didn't you ever make me try something new? I got the same thing at Friendly's for like twelve years.”

Mrs. Spiegel shrugged. “It made you happy. Your sisters never took to that place like you did, so it was kind of fun to have our own little thing. Besides, it's not like we ate there all that often, especially as you got older.”

Alice propped herself up on the crisp white pillows behind her. As she sat up, she had a chance to really comprehend the space she was in for the first time. It was definitely disorienting being in a place that was so . . . blank. Alice didn't often remember her dreams, but even so, she felt sure she'd never had an experience quite like this. It was like her brain forgot to load the color when it booted up into dream mode.

Her mother, on the other hand, was a painfully familiar sight. A few wrinkles were scattered across her baby face, the one that had always made her appear ten years younger than her driver's license said. She was petite, yet somehow always managed to fill a
room with her personality, one of the many things Alice admired about her.

“So it seems like you've had an interesting couple of days,” her mother said casually. Alice gave her a raised eyebrow in return. As if sensing the question behind the expression, her mom continued, “This is your dream, remember? I know everything that's happened.”

“Right . . . ,” Alice said, nodding slowly. She stopped, trying to recall everything that had happened thus far. Some of the details were a little hazy, but she felt like she got most of it. “It's definitely been a trip.”

Alice's mother stroked her daughter's hair. “You were going to kill yourself.”

That was one of the few things Alice had no trouble remembering. She wasn't necessarily ashamed about her suicide attempt; she just felt that there was something inherently weird about talking about it with her dead mother.

“Thank you for the blunt recap,” Alice replied with a huff.

“Again, your dream.”

Alice straightened up in the bed some more and tried to kick the sheets off, but after four kicks they were still covering her legs. “Yeah, well,” she said as the blankets kept getting more tangled around her feet, “that doesn't mean I get to control what happens.” Finally, she just tried to pry her lower half free with her left hand, but somehow the sheet was twisted around her left leg, so she needed to roll over first. “See? Like this shit! I mean, stuff. Like this stuff. And to top it all off, you're here—my mother, who I've been missing terribly since the day she passed away, is right here, right next to me, finally, and yet emotionally I don't feel anything . . . I don't know, what's the right word? Special? It's like you never even left. I guess because I'm dreaming this, it all just seems
normal, which, frankly, isn't fair. On top of that, I know the moment I wake up, I'll realize it was all a dream, and I'll be so sad that I just never want to get up and out of whatever ditch I'll inevitably find myself lying in.”

With a yell of frustration, she gave up trying to get the sheets off of her and flopped back onto the bed. “It's like, this whole thing has been so surreal. So . . .”

“Hollywood?” her mother offered.

“If you say something about it being my dream again—”

“Alice, you've dreamed about making it in Hollywood since you were four.” Her mother lay down on the bed next to her, just like she used to do when Alice was growing up. “Lighten up a little. You're alive!”

“Funny, people keep telling me that like it's a good thing.”

“It is!”

Alice sat bolt upright. This was not a discussion she wanted to have right now, and yet something in her mother's tone flipped a switch in Alice's head. “God, why does everybody keep saying that?! It's a good thing according to who, exactly? You? Charlie? Neither of you have any idea what it's like to be me. I'm single, I don't have a job, I don't have any close friends, I can't go back to school because what's the point, I can't make any money as a writer, I'll never find a guy who is even half as perfect as Marc, and even if I did, why would he date me, my mom—the one person I most aspired to be in life—is dead, and the one time I finally work up the courage to put an end to all of it, some guy shows up
literally
out of thin air and puts the kibosh on that. My life is nothing but one big exercise in pretending that everything is just
fucking grand
while on the inside I'm miserable. So no, Mom, I don't see it as a good thing.”

Her mother sat up slowly next to her. She looked somehow
angelic framed by the white walls behind her. She edged closer to Alice before placing her hand on top of Alice's own. Just like that, Alice found herself looking deep into her mother's hazel eyes. “You need to wake up now, Alice,” she said slowly.

That was not the reply Alice had been expecting. More to the point, it wasn't the one she wanted. “Wait . . . that's it? We just started talking, and . . . you can't just leave now.”

Her mother flashed a sad smile. “Not my choice.”

“Well, if it's my dream like you keep saying it is, then it should be my choice, and I say you're not going anywhere.”

Her mother stood up, and though Alice tried to follow suit, she found herself too tangled in blankets to accomplish the task. “I'm sorry, Alice,” her mother said with an air of finality, “but it doesn't work that way.”

“But you can't leave,” Alice said. “You have to fix me!”

“There's nothing to fix,” her mom said, and she started to walk away.

“So you're just going to leave your suicidal daughter like this, right after she's been kidnapped by some strange man after she planned to put a bullet through her head? I just want to make sure I'm understanding all of the nuances of this situation correctly.”

Her mother stopped and then turned, tucking a fallen strand of her own hair behind her ear as she did. She suddenly seemed as if she bore the weight of the world on her shoulders, and yet, in typical fashion, still gave the impression she could take another solar system's worth. “That's actually exactly why I think she'll be okay . . . because a strange but compassionate man showed up and somehow managed to get through to her when it seemed like no one else could. Even if she doesn't want to admit that to her own mother.”

The stinging anger Alice had felt moments ago dissipated
slightly. That also wasn't the reply she had been expecting. She was beginning to wonder if she was very bad at predicting what people were going to say or if the people she associated with just generally said crazy shit.

“I feel like everybody is talking to me in riddles tonight,” Alice said, rubbing her temples. “I swear, it gets old really, really quickly.”

“How about I put it this way,” her mother said as she moved back next to the white bed again. “Do you normally kiss men after they've kidnapped you?”

So that's where this is going.
Alice sighed and flopped back down. “Tough to say. I am one for one in that category, so statistically the answer is yes, one hundred percent of the men who have kidnapped me, I have kissed. Maybe I get aroused by kidnappers.”

Her mother chuckled. “I would say I'm encouraged you feel comfortable sharing that with me, but honestly there are certain things I can live without knowing.”

Alice turned to face her mother. “Being dead, you technically did. Live without knowing it, I mean.”

“Hey!” Her mom slapped her playfully. “You know what I meant!”

Now it was Alice's turn to shrug. “The fact of the matter is that you're ignoring what I said earlier about my life.”

“I am, only because I don't really believe that's how you truly feel anymore.”

Alice rolled over so she was looking across at the white wall opposite her mother. “So you think I'm lying.”

“Of course not,” her mother said earnestly. “I would bet anything in the world that's exactly how you feel right at this very moment. But I don't think it's going to stay that way, and I'd bet part of you thinks that, too.”

“Yeah, well, apparently that part of Alice is either currently malfunctioning or doesn't bother showing up in dreams. Take your pick.”

“As long as she's there, that's all that matters.” Her mother squeezed Alice's arm. “I miss you guys so much.”

Alice rolled back over and sat up. Her hands fell into her lap, and she found herself staring at them. She wanted so badly just to look at her mom again, but couldn't. Was that because it was part of the dream that was out of her control or because she had an unshakable feeling this would be the last time she'd ever have a moment like this?

“I miss you, too, Mom. More than you could ever know. I just want to know what to do.”

“You already do. Here's a hint: it rhymes with
barley
. Go find him.” Alice then felt her mother's lips pressed against her forehead, and it seemed so annoyingly, heartbreakingly real. “You've been in Wonderland for too long, my precious little Alice. You need to wake up now. And just so you know, I will always be in your heart for as long as you need me. I love you so very, very much.”

ALICE AWOKE
with the words
I love you, too
poised daintily on the edge of her lips.

She was arrayed in a mess of blankets in a white room, which initially caused her no shortage of confusion. However, she eventually noticed that the walls were not as perfectly blank as in her dream, and now other colors floated about the room. Her bed was composed of dark gray sheets and a yellow blanket, which was garish, to say the least, but comforting in the sense that at least it wasn't white. There was also the young man sitting
casually in a chair across from her on the other side of the bed who was—

Alice yelped in surprise as she realized she wasn't alone, pulling the sheets up instinctively toward her face. In response, the man held up his left hand in what Alice assumed was a placating gesture. With his other hand, he slipped something that glinted in the light into his pants pocket, and though it seemed vaguely related to something she'd seen earlier that night, she couldn't quite remember what.

Before her mind could travel further down that path, he was speaking to her.

“I see you are awake now,” he said with a noticeable but not overbearing Russian accent.

Alice had so many questions that she wanted to ask—who, what, where, why, when, how, rinse and repeat—but with her brain still not completely recovered from her dream, the best she could do was a stilted and delayed “Am I?”

The man laughed quietly before standing up. He walked over to a small nightstand on his side of the bed and took a glass of water from atop it. With a slow and deliberate motion, he offered it to her. “I have a feeling that your questions may be outweighed by your thirst, no?”

After he spoke, Alice became acutely aware of her mouth, namely that it felt like someone had poured the Sahara down it while she'd been out. She accepted the glass and began drinking in such satisfied gulps that water began to dribble down her chin.

“Easy, easy!” the man said with a small laugh. “I have plenty more, but you're still recovering. It's best if you sip slow.”

Alice exhaled and looked at the almost empty glass she now held in her hands. “Noted,” she said absentmindedly. There was a dull pain coming back to her, down by her shoulder. As she moved
to examine the area it was coming from, she noticed that her clothes were gone. In place of her white T-shirt and jeans she found what she could only describe as a loose-fitting hospital shirt and a pair of baggy pants made of the same material. Her mind was trying to puzzle together what exactly had happened, but she felt like she was in a deep fog. A pang of regret washed over her as memories of her mother came back, and it was all she could do to keep from tearing up. She sipped some more water from her glass instead.

“My name is Begemot. Cartwright asked that I stay with you in case you woke up. As is usual, his instinct turned out to be correct. Don't worry—you're safe here. There will be no more running away now, I promise.”

Alice looked over at him. His eyes seemed sharp, even if they were partially obscured by his drooping eyelids. Both his words and demeanor felt refreshingly calm.

“How did I get here? And where is
here
, exactly? And where's Charlie?” Alice asked.

“I see your injuries haven't dented your curiosity much,” Begemot said. “Cartwright brought you here with some help, the here being the Ferryman Institute. We may have bent a rule or two in the process, but you needn't concern yourself with that. You were in need of immediate care and, unfortunately, a conventional place of treatment might not have been fast enough. I hope you don't mind our modest accommodations. I will admit, they don't often see much use.”

Alice surveyed the room again. “Well, your blankets and sheets are ugly as shit, but I'm not dead, so you're doing okay in my book.”